He heard a scraping, as of someone pulling on the heavy bolt that held the door shut. Then a thud and a choking cry of pain. Then a sound like a heavy sack being dropped.
Simon groaned inwardly. He could picture what had happened. Now the door was held shut, not just by a bolt, but by a dead body.
He felt ice cold, but sweat trickled under his mail. The blackness was thick, a blanket, smothering him. The smells of the spices were cloying, dizzying. His stomach felt queasy.
"Flint and tinder!" Simon shouted, and Friar Mathieu repeated his words for the Armenians and Tartars. Everything he said had to be translated. The delay was maddening.
And, Simon realized, anyone who tried to strike a light would make himself the enemy's next target.
God's blood, even by answering Friar Mathieu the Tartars would give away their location to the stalker. The man in black must be able to find his victims by listening for them.
So, if sound would make them visible, then the only way to thwart this demon would be by silence. And even now men were starting to answer Simon's call for flint.
"Silence!" he shouted. His voice sounded shrill in his ears, like a frightened boy's.
For a moment there was no sound in the blackness.
"He finds us by the sounds we make," Simon said. "Everyone remain still, and we will hear him when he moves."